


To Clarify

by LookBetweenTheLines



Series: Complaints of a Hero [9]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Worship, Low Self Esteem, M/M, Oral Sex, Size Difference, manhandling kink, minor blood play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:49:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26997742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LookBetweenTheLines/pseuds/LookBetweenTheLines
Summary: As a lone miqo'te surrounded by auri men on the Steppe, Z'kila has to face some old, unwelcome self doubts that raise their ugly heads. Some attention from the Khan of the Oronir, whether knowingly or not, helps.
Relationships: Magnai Oronir/Warrior of Light
Series: Complaints of a Hero [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1400026
Comments: 13
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be pwp. But I can't write smut without build-up, apparently. Rating for second chapter.

One string of the morin khuur let out an unpleasant screech and Z’kila winced, scowling down at the instrument in his lap like he wasn’t the one to cause it. He shifted the angle just slightly, adjusting the way its neck rested on his shoulder, but didn't set the bow to the strings again. When the notion of travelling to the Far East arose, he hadn't spared a thought for anything of luxury—his violin, for example, he had left behind in Tataru's care in the Rising Stones. The morin khuur was the closest thing he'd come across this side of the world that resembled anything like it. But just because it was a stringed instrument played with a bow didn't mean the two were anything alike. 

Z’kila sat alone atop the Dawn Throne, legs crossed and the morin khuur leaning against his shoulder. He had a corner to himself where he wasn’t in the way of the livestock and wouldn’t bother any of the au ra with his terrible playing. Too much, at least. Besides he was tired of the looks being shot his way; some with trepidation, like they were afraid he was about to kick them off the Dawn Throne, and others with outward hostility. He was sure he was still getting those glances but at least he couldn’t see them. They hadn’t exactly been well-received the first time they had been brought here but the Naadam had amplified the ill feelings.  
Magnai had refused to look at him when they announced themselves. 

Sighing, he turned to look north across the Steppe. The pinpricks of light marked Mol Iloh in the distance and he could still make out the colourful banners surrounding Chakha Zoh in the encroaching dusk. He might not be particularly welcome here but there was no denying the land was beautiful. The wind glided across the flat plains with nought but the Throne itself to interrupt it. 

In another life he might have been happy to abandon the mantle of adventurer and call this place his home. Not an easy life; certainly not a boring one. But a simple one, far from the complex diplomacy of the Eorzean Alliance. Maybe for his retirement. If he got to retire. 

One more night on the Dawn Throne as they made their way south, back towards Doma. If Z’kila were being honest with himself he might admit he would miss the Steppe in a way he’d never missed anywhere—save Camp Dragonhead, perhaps. But that was different. 

‘ _Here_ you are!’ 

Z’kila flicked an ear out to latch onto her voice before glancing over to watch Lyse plop ungracefully on the ground at his side. A distraction from the melancholy turn his thoughts were heading but not one he particularly wanted. ‘Hello.’ 

‘Hien and Cirina are still inside discussing terms,’ she said, leaning back on her hands with her gaze on the palace doors. ‘I didn’t want to hang around for the politics. It’s not really our specialty, right?’ 

His tongue itched with a barbed response but he had neither the desire nor the energy to speak it, so he said simply, ‘I suppose not. Certainly not this side of the world.’ 

Lyse fell silent, a furrow beginning to form between her brows. Z’kila left her to her thoughts and returned the bow to the strings of the morin khuur, testing the sound. It produced a far deeper, richer sound than his violin, which unfortunately made it ten times worse when he got the angle wrong. He was yet to get it right for two notes in a row. Lyse didn’t seem to care about the awful noise. 

‘I’m glad the Mol rule the Steppe now because I know they’ll be fair,’ she said when, after a particularly blood-curdling screech, Z’kila dropped the bow on the grass with a huff. ‘But doesn’t it feel a bit… I don’t know. It’s just that we’re not even meant to fight in the Naadam. We’re outsiders. And you’re the Warrior of Light. Do you see what I mean?’

Z’kila shrugged. ‘I’ve done a fair few things just because I was told to that turned out to be underhanded.’ 

Lyse chewed on her lip. ‘So you agree it was like cheating? At least a little bit?’ 

‘You don’t need anyone else to validate your opinions, Lyse,’ he said, glancing at her sideways. 

‘Oh—oh I know,’ she said with a wave of her hand that was anything but convincing. ‘And I know that Magnai and Sadu could have refused if they wanted to but agreed to abide by the Law of the Steppe, which means what we did must have been lawful, right? At least...’

Z’kila knew to let her keep talking until she made peace with her inner conflict. If anyone interrupted to try and placate her it only prolonged the inevitable; she needed to talk herself around in circles for a while before she could be convinced of anything one way or the other. He remained silent, laying the instrument carefully on the grass at his side. He wasn’t listening closely, just enough to nod or hum at the right moments. Did he agree? Sort of. But it was the choice of the people of the Steppe at the end of the day whether they joined Hien in a war that wasn’t theirs. He suspected the arrival of the Garleans on Steppe territory had helped in that regard. They had chosen to allow them to fight with the Mol, had decided to honor the law that allowed them to win the Naadam. 

An auri man with dark skin in the dress of the Buduga stepped out of the palace walls and caught Z’kila’s attention. He kept his expression neutral but it was harder to keep his ears from lowering, an indication of the scowl he kept to himself. Lyse didn’t notice, still rambling away as Z’kila watched Daidukul cross the Throne in long, measured strides. 

It’s not that he’d wanted to be kept as some kind of insurance prisoner beneath the palace and wait for Magnai’s demand to be met by the others, but the circumstances of it had...stung. 

Poor Lyse was always going to be the woman-obsessed Magnai’s choice. And the way he had turned to Daidukul and said, "You may have your pick of the men," with just enough implication in his tone had taken him aback, just as it had both Hien and Gosetsu. Daidukul hadn’t made so much as an attempt to hide the way his eyes had raked over each of them in turn, their legs, their chests, their faces. His new attire, authentic Hingan cloth and leather, was skin-tight around his arms, torso and calves, loose only around his waist and thighs for freer movement. As comfortable and pragmatic as the garments were, they did nothing to hide the fact that he was...well, scrawny. 

Especially next to the Doman prince, who was the epitome of _Warrior_ in both physique and skill. 

Z’kila was very aware of his own shortcomings when it came to people’s expectations, had seen many important figures look straight over the top of his head whilst waiting to meet the much talked about but rarely seen Warrior of Light. By miqo’te standards he was on the tall side, but here he had to crane his neck to address half of the entire population. It was almost like being back in Ishgard.

He had developed his style of combat to suit his body’s shape and capabilities, and to gain muscle weight now would just be a hindrance. Z’kila knew this. But knowing it didn’t do much to ease the leaden weight that had settled somewhere in his stomach. 

‘...so I guess having the Garleans invade the Steppe did us a huge favour, don’t you think?’ said Lyse, finishing off her rant of concern and pulling Z’kila from the darker depths of his thoughts.

‘Magnai and Sadu aren’t the types to be tricked into anything,’ said Z’kila to reassure her. ‘They agreed to join Hien in the battle against the Garleans in Doma then it’s because they want to, or see a need to. I don’t think Sadu needed much convincing.’

That brought a smile to her face, at least. Z’kila gathered up the morin khuur and its bow and climbed to his feet. ‘Oh, are you going somewhere?’ she asked, hopping up alongside him. 

‘I need to take this back to Sorocan before she hunts me down with her shepherd’s staff.’ She took a breath and Z’kila, not wanting company right then, hurried to add, ‘Will you tell Hien and Cirina I’ll join you later for supper?’ 

Lyse was not good at hiding her disappointment, but she nodded and said, ‘Okay!’ before jogging off towards the yurt that had been provided for their stay. Z’kila headed the other way, following Daidukul’s path around the side of the great palace to the western side of the Throne where the Buduga congregated. He stopped off by Sorocan’s flock to hand back her morin khuur. He caught her subtly examining it for damage when he turned away and couldn’t blame her for it. His handling of the instrument left a lot to be desired. 

He lurked in the darkening shadow of the palace, leaning back against the wall and pretending not to have one eye on the group of Buduga gathering around a growing bonfire. The flames reflected in flickering reds and oranges off the malms of skin on display ranging from deep indigo to snowy white. The firelight cast long shadows across lines of muscle, defining them further. 

The lot of them together were pleasing to the eye. Some of them threw logs onto the fire to build it higher and whooped at the sparks that flew into the air, others sat cross-legged on the grass and patiently awaited their food while three of the older members of the tribe crouched over a steaming cooking pot. The spices mixed with the smoke on the way to Z’kila’s nose to create a mouth-watering scent. 

Auri men were incredible specimens, especially the ones that put so much stock in their combat ability like the Oronir, or those that idolised the male form like the Buduga. It would be easier to enjoy the view if it didn’t make Z’kila feel so pathetic by comparison. 

‘You still sulk at Daidukul’s choice.’

Z’kila jumped, hackles standing on end as he flicked both ears back to latch onto the intruder. He knew without looking who it was. The question phrased as a statement by a voice dripping with comic levels of arrogance gave him away. 

‘I do not sulk. I ponder,’ Z’kila returned, turning to glance back out of the corner of his eye. ‘Your radiance is diminished here, khan. What can the shadows do for you?’

‘Even the Sun knows the places he cannot reach.’ He paused, and Z’kila grit his teeth. He was in no mood for posturing; if Magnai wanted to punish him for claiming the ovoo before him, or threaten him with various flavours of severe maiming, he’d rather he just get on with it. ‘Your companions are feasting with the Oronir to the south to enjoy the last of the sun’s rays, but you prefer to skulk by yourself in the dark.’

Z’kila snorted. ‘Yes, it’s what I do. I skulk. By myself.’ _Go away._

‘There was no skulking to be done in the Naadam. And yet you-’

‘There was plenty of skulking to be done, actually, even if it was broad daylight. For, you see, while you and Sadu were tearing each other to shreds you both completely missed little ol’ me sliding on over to the ovoo and claiming it for the Mol.’

The glare was tangible on the back of his neck, and still Z’kila refused to look round. ‘The Sun does not tolerate shadows in his presence.'

'Well considering _this_ one is now your khagan, I suppose he'll have to,' Z'kila snapped. 

'I will not answer to a creature that depends upon tricks in the dark like a weak little kitten.'

Z'kila whirled around and flashed him a snarl. 'Don't.'

Magnai’s eyes lit up like burning embers even as his mouth contorted into a grimace that showed his teeth, looming over Z’kila to cast him even further in shadow. ‘What will you do, little kitten? With no comrades and no udgan to distract me, how will you exert your dominance?’

Quicker than a lightning strike, he grabbed Z’kila by the front of his short robe and curled his long, clawed fingers into the fabric, yanking him in close. Z’kila’s ears flattened of their own accord, a sharp, cold stab of fear lancing straight through him. Both hands lurched up to pry at Magnai’s tense grip, struggling to keep the sheer fright off his face. Flashes of the Garlean prince’s mask merged with Magnai’s satisfied, cocksure grin. 

He breathed slowly, consciously, and refused to let himself struggle. This was precisely the situation he avoided at all costs in battle; allowing himself to be caught was a death sentence. But he couldn’t struggle, couldn’t flail and convey that information to his captor. Both daggers were still in his belt, easily within reach if he needed them. He wasn’t completely defenceless. He took another breath. 

‘Well?’ Magnai asked with a little shake. ‘The shadows can’t deny the Sun forever. As surely as he crosses the sky, so too will they recede.’ 

His heart thumping painfully against his ribcage, Z’kila forced himself to smile. ‘As surely as they will return as soon as he turns his back.’ 

Magnai scowled. ‘ _Brat,_ ’ he spat. ‘A barbed tongue does nothing against the might of Azim. The shadows flee from his radiance. What would become of you should you bask in mine?’ 

Z’kila hesitated. ‘...Exactly how literal are we taking this metaphor?’ 

‘You make mock of me, cur?!’ Magnai demanded, slamming him up against the palace’s outer walls, hurling him about with one arm as easily as he did that wicked axe. Had the Buduga tribe not been so rowdy in their supper preparations they would have surely been heard. Z’kila’s head swam as it _thunk_ ed off the white stone, his toes reaching to find purchase on the grass. Magnai didn’t even seem to notice he was holding him almost off the ground, teeth bared and horns pressed against the wall as he towered over Z’kila. Fear lanced through him again, but strangely warm this time, settling somewhere in his gut. 

He was a little too preoccupied with the proximity of the points of those horns to give the sensation any real attention. 

‘Do you want to chase away the shadows, Your Radiance?’ he asked with a smirk, his right hand twitching and ready to reach for his dagger should Magnai threaten to actually hurt him. 

‘Stubborn shadows are doused in the Sun’s light until they succumb to his might,’ Magnai growled, hauling Z’kila up off the ground with a yip. ‘They flee from his light or bow down and accept their end.’ 

Z’kila flailed in the air, his grasp on Magnai’s arm tightening but no longer trying to pry free. The stone raked against his back and one ear caught on the point of a horn, nicking a bead of blood from the fur. His boots scuffed the wall, scraping for purchase, until they found some on Magnai’s robes with one ankle on either hip. 

A tense moment of silence took over the Dawn Throne as he took stock of their position. Magnai held him up against the wall, with one arm, at eye level. The other hung at his side, almost leisurely, but for the dark blush that was beginning to pool in his scaled cheeks. One jerk of Z’kila’s calves and he could pull him in the mere fulm between them, wrap his thighs around that robed waist and fluster him entirely. A tremor began in Z’kila’s hands that wasn’t entirely due to lingering fear. 

‘Which would you have me do?’ he asked, tongue darting out to moisten his lips while he watched Magnai’s reaction. With all his talk of the Sun and light and radiance it was rather difficult to tell whether he wanted to chop him in half or swive him silly. It could quite easily be both. 

Magnai leant forward, closing in a few ilms. Z’kila had to cling on with his knees, curved horns entrapping his head. A small, tingling shiver ran down to the tip of his tail. His free hand came up to rest on Z’kila’s hip, pushing his back flush against the wall while the other loosened its grip on his robe. Z’kila’s tail thrashed at the manhandling, coming up to wrap around Magnai’s wrist. 

He paused, glanced down at his fur-braceleted arm, careful to keep his horns still. Z’kila took advantage of his distraction and hooked his ankles together behind Magnai’s back, pulling him in to press against his chest with their noses barely touching. Magnai grunted at the movement, blush deepening. He released Z’kila’s hip and caught his tail between his fingers, curling it around his palm. Z’kila shuddered at the sensation and let his head fall back against the wall, looking down at Magnai’s averted gaze with hooded eyes and lopsided grin. ‘If you wanted me to be a brat, all you had to do was ask.’ 

‘You will bask in the Sun’s light,’ Magnai insisted, a low growl underpinning his words. 

Z’kila smiled wide and whispered, ‘Perhaps he should join me in the shadows instead.’ 

Magnai’s nostrils flared. He released Z’kila’s robe, lifted his hand up to trace the soft, moist skin of his lips. It was sensual in a way Z’kila didn’t expect, though he suspected it was to keep him quiet. He parted them and dragged his canines over the pad of Magnai’s thumb, maintaining eye contact with him as he brushed the digit with the very tip of his tongue. A gust of breath ghosted his neck.

A growl began deep in Magnai’s chest, cut off abruptly by a loud cheer from the Buduga tribe. 

They froze. Glanced sideways. They were well hidden, out of sight behind the wall in deepening shadow. Chatter and singing picked up again and Z'kila smirked at Magnai's relieved sigh. 

'Shadows are good for some things, aye?'

In answer, Magnai dropped him. Z'kila barely got his feet underneath him before Magnai encased his arm in an iron-tight grip and half dragged, half carried him back towards the palace's entrance. 

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's explicit content between two men in this chapter, please avoid if that's not your thing <3

With the entire Buduga tribe behind the palace walls to the west and every Oronir to the south with Z’kila’s companions for supper and entertainment, he and Magnai went quite undisturbed as they dipped into the palace proper. Even the usual sentries had left their posts by the doors. Z’kila thought vaguely, as he struggled to keep up with the khan’s marching pace to save himself being dragged along, that Magnai must have known they wouldn’t be seen. It was strange enough to have this kind of attention from someone who spouted wax lyrical about his search for the perfect woman. 

Then again, maybe it wasn’t so strange. 

Instead of the throne room straight ahead, Magnai yanked him around a corner and through a door he had never never had reason to look behind before. The corridor was bare stone, candles in sconces along the wall. Up a narrow, rickety wooden staircase. And then another, circling the outer walls of the palace as they climbed. Z’kila glimpsed the Oroniri supper party down on the grass below through one of the narrow windows. 

When it became quite clear they were on the topmost floor with naught but the yol nest above them, Magnai kicked open a wooden door at the end of the corridor and shoved Z’kila straight through. He stumbled on the thick shaggy rug that greeted him, glanced back with a frown as he caught his balance and straightened out his robe. 

‘Undress yourself,’ said Magnai, unceremoniously turning the key in the lock. 

‘Oh, how romantic,’ Z’kila grumbled, turning his back on the dangerous glare flashed his way. He pulled on the tail of his sash and let it unravel as he glanced about the room. By his usual expectations of palatial chambers, it was a humble room with little more than several woollen rugs, a long screen partially obscuring a metal tub and bed, which was propped up on a wooden plinth and covered in very soft, very inviting furs. By Steppe standards, it was rather lavish. 

Z’kila listened to the rustle of Magnai disrobing behind him, kicking off his boots while using his teeth to pull off one glove at a time. He paused then, looking down at the hilts of his daggers in his belt. He wanted to keep them within reach. Unbuckling his belt, he went to drape it—looking casual enough, he hoped—over the corner of the bed’s wooden stand. 

He hesitated then, tail twitching; Magnai was silent, he could feel the heat of an intense, impatient gaze on his back. Z’kila pulled open his robe and let it slide from his shoulders to reveal an imperfect back of burn and laceration scars, glancing down at his front as he did. His chest, his stomach, once a testament to his skill and speed that _nothing_ could land a hit to his front, was now carved in half by the thick, ugly line of scar tissue from right shoulder to left hip. The conjurors had done what they could, but that awful katana must have cleaved an entire chunk out of him for the white magic to leave him in such a state. 

Relieving himself of the loose-fitting trousers was an easier task; the only mark to his legs was a white stripe on his thigh where Nidhogg had nicked him on the Steps of Faith. He left his gear on the floor in a more or less neat pile. 

‘What would you have me do now-?’ Z’kila began, reluctant to turn around and reveal the mess of his chest, but the choice was made for him. Magnai spun him around by the shoulder, wrapped his hands around his waist with fingers so long they almost met at the tips, and hiked him right off the ground. 

Z’kila found himself again pinned to the wall with a _thump_ that knocked the air out of his chest, the stone cold on his back and Magnai hot between his thighs. He tried to growl, but it was a purely token protest. He should hate being pinned like this by someone so much bigger and stronger than he. It terrified him; but it also sent a thrill straight from his chest to his groin, and he hated that he _didn’t_ hate it. 

He locked his ankles just above Magnai’s tail, even though the bigger man’s weight was doing all the work to hold him up, and rested his hands on Magnai’s shoulders. Heat bloomed in his cheeks at the feel of the length pressing into his hip, less than an ilm from his own. He daren’t look down in case he gave away any trepidation. 

Magnai’s claws briefly dug into the flesh of his backside, pinpricks of pleasure-pain, before they left his hips to grab hold of his wrists and trap his hands against the wall beside his head, encompassed entirely by Magnai’s own large palms and long fingers. 

‘Do nothing.’ Magnai’s voice was a low, rumbling growl that sent a shiver across Z’kila’s skin. Their noses brushed; breaths mingled. ‘Succumb.’ 

Z’kila glanced over at the bed towards his daggers. So much for keeping them within reach. But as much as his mind knew he was in a potentially perilous position, his body was far too interested to let him refuse. 

The tip of a horn scratched his cheek as Magnai moved his attention to Z’kila’s jaw, peppering the skin with light, ghostly kisses and nips of his teeth. Pinned as he was, Z’kila could do nothing but let...whatever this was going to turn into, happen. But with his heart thumping in his throat and most of his blood vacating his brain to pool elsewhere, he could hardly say he wasn’t happy about it. Closing his eyes to the sensations, he let his head fall back against the wall to expose his throat to the scrape of scales, the brush of cracked lips, the nip of teeth and the soft, wet swipe of the tip of a tongue. 

He moved down the column of Z’kila’s throat, pressing the flat of his tongue against his rapid pulse. Z’kila struggled to keep his breathing normal, to avoid stuttering, gasping or panting. Magnai had barely touched him; it was ridiculous to be in such an eager, twitchy state already. 

Z’kila had imagined Magnai to be the type to pin any and every sexual partner on their front and swive them into the ground with only his own pleasure in mind. The reality was entirely unexpected. When that tongue swiped down his neck to the dip where his collarbones met, Magnai’s hands abandoned Z’kila’s to grasp his hips and hike him up higher. A jolt of arousal alighted his veins even as Z’kila flailed a little at the manhandling, hands coming to rest on the top of Magnai’s head for balance while his thighs tightened around his ribs. 

Magnai’s tongue traced the line of the hideous scar, pausing to nip and pull at the skin with his teeth in places. Every touch left gooseflesh in its wake, the anticipation of _more_ blurring the edges of every thought. Every touch, bite, lick, had been close to the boundary of chaste, despite their unclothed state, and Z’kila started to wonder, hazily, if Magnai intended to keep him there all night. The thought made him shiver. 

It was then that Z’kila realised that Magnai was paying close attention to the parts of his jaw, neck, chest that, on an au ra, would be covered by scales. 

Was that the basis of Magnai’s attraction? His lack of scales? His size might have also played into it, he supposed, since he was barely taller than the average auri woman. And he was okay with that. If Magnai was willing to throw him around some more and wanted to treat him like a soft, smooth-skinned and delicate woman, then he could keep his mouth shut and enjoy the ride.

The room spun as Magnai hauled him from the wall, claw points digging bruises into his hips, and dropped to his knees and deposited Z’kila on his back on the hard, rough wooden floor. He suppressed a hiss as Magnai went straight to his navel, horns carving angry red lines into his skin and contrasting deliciously with the soft, wet trail of his tongue. Z’kila threw his arms over his face to hide the growing blush on his cheeks as Magnai skirted around the place he wanted touched most, a telltale wetness beginning to leak onto his abdomen. 

Magnai traced the line of his hip bone on the left side with the very tip of his tongue, biting down around it to make Z’kila jolt when he reached the edge and pulling gently on the skin. Then he moved over to do the same to his other side. Every huff of warm breath ghosted tantalisingly over his length, the promise of a touch that had Z’kila squirming even as Magnai’s large hands kept his waist pinned to the floor. His tail came up to wrap around a forearm, the act of grounding himself preferable to thrashing aimlessly somewhere off to the side. 

The onslaught paused while Magnai observed the furry limb attached to his arm and Z’kila almost regretted the act. That is, until he moved to rub his cheek against the soft, shining fur, careful to avoid catching it on his horns. 

‘You are a delight on the senses,’ he rumbled. 

Z’kila peeked out from under his arms. His growing arousal pushed to the wayside for a moment, he found himself at a loss for words—were he inclined to answer in the first instance. He wanted to maintain the illusion for the khan, and speaking might ruin that. He’d had a fair number of bedmates in his life, none of which had described him as such. How was one even supposed to reply to such a thing?

He was saved from that particular conundrum by the long, slow swipe of a broad tongue up the underside of his member. He clapped both hands over his mouth as a gasp threatened to escape, his hips fighting Magnai’s grip to arch into the hot, wet, _torturous_ touch. It was at once everything he wanted and not nearly enough. 

Magnai paused at his tip to lap up the leaking fluid there, the sensation and the sight combined sending a shiver down Z’kila’s spine. He had been fully prepared to accept that part of him going entirely ignored in favour of keeping up the illusion of womanhood. He didn’t know how to handle this unexpected turn of events; and not knowing just added to the thrill of it. 

Tongue still on him, Magnai looked up to meet Z’kila’s gaze. His eyes were burning embers, irises glowing in the fading light and boring into him under heavy lids. He licked another long, slow stripe up the underside of his length, holding the shared look all the while. Z’kila squeezed his eyes shut and breathed carefully through the urge to moan, feeling like he might just spontaneously combust with the effort of maintaining patience. 

With a final flick of his tongue to the tip, Magnai crawled up Z’kila’s body, slotting himself between spread thighs, and pressed their members together. Z’kila’s tail thrashed at the contact, his breath freezing in his chest to stop himself making noise; the buildup of saliva was just enough to stop the friction from edging on the border of pain. He didn’t have to look down to realise just how big the au ra was. Z’kila ached with the anticipation of more, throbbing in time with his rapidly beating heart, though he wasn’t yet sure what _more_ would entail. Magnai’s member was hot and firm against his, the minimal friction with every slight shift of hips just adding fuel to the blaze of frustrated arousal. 

Magnai leant his weight on one elbow and took hold of Z’kila’s hand in his own, his handling neither gentle nor rough. ‘Look at me,’ he commanded in that deep, quiet, growling voice. Z’kila shivered and obeyed, teeth clenched tightly with the effort it took to meet that heated gaze, to watch Magnai take two of his fingers into his mouth.

Z’kila’s tail smacked against Magnai’s arm. His mouth was hot and wet around his fingers, his tongue lavishing them with the kind of attention that created the same phantom sensation elsewhere. He dug his heels into the ground and tried to shift his hips to create _some_ kind of friction, however slight, but it was difficult to move at all with Magnai’s weight draped over him. 

With his free hand, Magnai trailed the length of Z’kila’s body, down the column of his throat with the tips of his claws scraping lightly on his heated skin, skimming shy of one nipple, down his navel to his pelvis. He lifted one thigh to bend at the knee, stroking down to his rear with his palm. With the pad of a fingertip, careful of his claws, he rubbed at the sensitive skin between Z’kila’s legs. 

Z’kila’s entire form thrashed, or tried to. The sensations on his fingers, on his member, on his entrance contrasted and overwhelmed to the point he struggled to keep himself still and pliant for the Oroniri khan. He wanted to flip him onto his back, pin his wrists and ride him—but daren’t. Magnai had all the strength, all the power, and Z’kila could do nothing but comply. His tail whipped against the ground. 

Moments later, it all stopped at once. Magnai pulled away, leaving Z’kila exposed, cold and trembling on the ground. He hauled him up by the elbow, setting him on his knees. ‘Prepare yourself for me,’ he said while Z’kila flailed to make his legs work to support himself again. Magnai stood before him and he latched onto both hips, that member jutting long and proud from between his legs. Shining obsidian scales wrapped around the base with tendrils snaking along the length of him. It took a moment for the words to register.

At least those claws wouldn’t rip him apart this way, he thought privately. Z’kila kept his claws clipped down, perhaps not for this specific reason, but it was proving useful in multiple ways to have them short. With one hand clutching Magnai’s hip for support, he reached beneath himself with his wetted fingers at the same time he took the other’s member into his mouth. 

He was not in the mood to tease, not when he was so worked up already and eager to get Magnai to the same state. Those scales were strangely soft, smooth on his tongue, an interesting contrast to skin. A large, clawed hand came to rest on his head, tangling in his hair and scratching lightly on his scalp. Holding rather than pushing.

Z’kila looked up through his lashes. Magnai’s fiery gaze was on him. A thumb brushed the base of his ear. 

Relaxing his jaw, Z’kila took him as deep as he could manage without choking, a soft grunt escaping him as he opened himself up on his fingers. He didn’t do this to himself very often, preferring to save such acts for when he had a partner. 

Magnai’s grip tightened in his hair, a small growl echoing from above. Z’kila let the sound guide him, using the flat of his tongue on the underside going down and hollowing out his cheeks and sucking _hard_ coming back up. He huffed with the stinging pleasure of his fingers, bordering on the line of discomfort, and Magnai brushed the tips of his claws against the back of one ear. 

He wasn’t permitted to work for long. Mere moments, it felt like, before Magnai grabbed hold of that ear and pulled him off his member. Z’kila blinked up at him. His expression remained stern, but a flush had spread from his cheeks all the way down across his shoulders and Z’kila felt a thrill of pride. Not that he was given any time to bask in it, as Magnai stooped to gather him up in long, strong arms. Z’kila felt suddenly very small; and thoughts of what Magnai might do to him next sent a jolt of levin all the way through his body, centring in his groin. 

Magnai dropped him onto the bed on his front without preamble. The furs broke his fall, a soft and warm embrace on a stiff mattress. He started to gather his knees underneath him, trembling with anticipation, but then Magnai climbed over him, pinning his body flat to the bed. 

That member pressed hard and hot into the back of his thigh. Hands supported himself by Z’kila’s shoulders, caging him in. He took hold of Z’kila’s wrists and restrained them both in one large, clawed hand above his head. The length of Magnai’s body rested along Z’kila’s, his weight pressing him into the furs, trapping his tail at an awkward angle and forcing the breath from his chest. Z’kila was already worked up to breaking point, and now he was forced to pant too before Magnai was even inside him. 

He flicked his tail out of the way as soon as Magnai eased up the weight on his hips, moving into position to line himself up, the other hand clawing into his rear. ‘I want to hear you yowl,’ Magnai rumbled right into his ear, the tip of him rubbing promisingly against Z’kila’s entrance. 

Z’kila knew this dalliance would come with pain, knew he would be feeling it for days to come, and he revelled in the anticipation. At the growled words in his ear, a smirk curled at the corners of his mouth. He pushed back against him as far as Magnai’s grip allowed, the pressure teasingly delicious, and purred, ‘ _Make_ me.’

A wordless growl rumbles from above, at once both aroused and threatening. 

Magnai snapped his hips forward and Z’kila choked on a breath, forced open onto that large member. 

The pain was a tantalising burn that spread throughout his hips and down his legs. He wanted to writhe, wriggle, squirm- but couldn’t. Knees trapped by Magnai’s legs, both wrists pinned in one hand, chest constricted by the weight of the huge au ra. When he could do more than just _feel_ , his ear flicked under the hitched breathing above. Z’kila clenched his jaw as Magnai sunk deeper, struggling to catch his breath under the combined sensation of being stretched so thoroughly, so mercilessly, under the pressure of Magnai’s weight. 

Magnai paused when fully sheathed, nosing at the back of Z’kila’s neck, hot breath huffing across flushed skin and contrasting with the stabbing of sharp horns into his shoulder blades. Z’kila felt full to bursting, burning with pleasure-pain, snatching shallow breaths. 

Slowly, painfully slowly, Magnai withdrew. Ilm by ilm, the friction a delightful burning drag. A shaky inhale from Z’kila, immediately forced out of him again with the next steady thrust. Out and back in, all squirming forbidden, all breaths coming in wheezing gasps. 

The burn began to give way to tingling pleasure with the slow pace, adjusting to the sheer size of him with each stroke, and Z’kila began to relax into the sensation. The panting shifted to contented sighing. But the noise served as a signal to the au ra, who gave an almost silent growl that vibrated against Z’kila’s back and ground his hips into his rear, pushing as deep as their bodies would allow. Z’kila hissed in pleasure. 

Magnai picked up a ruthless pace, railing into the man beneath with bruising strength that forced his spine to arch into the mattress. Z’kila’s eyes flew open, forced to simply accept the onslaught pinned as he was. He struggled for breath, every gasp immediately knocked back out of him. 

Every thought was replaced by pure feeling. Over him, around him, _in him._

He has a moment of clarity when Magnai pauses to shift his weight, and he tests his wrists. Magnai lets him move. He can get out if he wants to. Knowing that just adds to the dizzying arousal thrumming through his system. A low, growling groan echoed in one ear, pulling a quiet mewl from Z’kila in response. And then the brutal pace begins again, raising more quiet noises from them both, a chorus of wordless communication. 

Magnai dragged against that spot inside, Z’kila’s member finding muted friction against the furs beneath him, and the pleasures combined were pushing him steadily towards his end. Sensing the tremble in his shoulders, Magnai slipped his hand under Z’kila’s hips and wrapped around him. 

Z’kila gave a little grumble of appreciation, pushing back onto him as much as Magnai’s weight allowed. But then those fingers tightened almost painfully around his base and Z’kila tensed, fingers clawing into the furs. 

‘I’ll have you yowling first,’ Magnai growled into his ear by way of explanation, words coming with fragmented, laboured breaths. 

Z’kila managed a huff of indignation, the words good luck on the tip of his tongue before the breath was forced out of his chest and the words out of his mind. Magnai fucked him into the mattress, one hand on his wrists and the other preventing his end. Hot breath ghosting across his neck and shoulders, lower legs pinned by much larger ones. Pleasure spiralled up and up without release. Z’kila whimpered, pushed higher than he’d ever been. Thoughts and words were long out of his control. His tail thumped against the mattress at his side. Pride kept him quiet, or perhaps it was spite. 

Magnai’s thrusts grew erratic, the pace stuttering and Z’kila felt him swell. Grunts and groans grew louder in his ears. Z’kila’s trembling turned to outright shaking, teeth chewing into his lower lip in the vain attempt to keep quiet even as pathetic mewls and whines escaped his throat. Pushed to the precipice of pleasure, the grip around him forced him to linger there. 

With a long, relieved groan, Magnai chased his finish, spilling inside. Unable to squirm, unable to find any friction of his own, the added pressure of spilled seed forcing a plaintive cry from Z’kila’s lips.   
Satisfied, Magnai released him and stroked through Z’kila’s silent finish. His body convulsed with it, his throat closing up, his eyes rolling back and wetting the furs beneath him. He came down at length, muscles twitching and thoughts returning slowly. He flinched as Magnai pulled free, feeling too open and empty. 

He dared not move, dared not check what mess had been made of his body, too pleased to bask in his boneless satisfaction. Magnai collapsed onto his back, snaked his arms under Z’kila and pulled him onto his chest. He threw a roll of clean fur over them both.

Well, Z’kila supposed, it wasn’t like he could get very far anyway. He settled his head on Magnai’s chest, an ear pressed to the spot over his heart. The beat was still rapid, but slowing. 

‘You sing,’ Magnai grumbled after a long moment of silence. Not a question, but not quite a demand either. Z’kila huffed and started to hum tiredly. It would keep him awake, if nothing else.

In mere moments, Magnai’s breathing evened out and slowed. Z’kila stayed still, wide awake, and continued the soothing tune. He waited for at least a bell, or so he guessed, before he tested his legs and wriggled free of the au ra’s long arms. He hissed at the pull in his hips when he sat up. But he wasn’t going to fall asleep here and face the awkwardness of waking up in the Khan’s bed. 

Never before had he been so grateful that his clothing was loose. He dressed slowly, silently. Sheathed his daggers back into his belt last, with a final look at Magnai’s face. He was much more handsome without that eternal scowl on his face. _It was fun,_ he thought with a private smirk. _Drag me here again next time._

Then he turned and limped from the room on silent toes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3


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